


Vignettes

by CosmicZombie



Category: Borgias - Ambiguous Fandom, The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicZombie/pseuds/CosmicZombie
Summary: In the aftermath of Pesaro, Lucrezia finds solace in Cesare.





	Vignettes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how I ended up here. One minute I was watching The Borgias with Amelia and procrastinating dissertation work and the next here I am with a 17,000 word fic. I blame Holliday Granger and Francois Arnaud's amazing chemistry (and Amelia for getting me to watch this show in the first place). 
> 
> This is set in some indeterminable place early second season and is slightly AU in the sense that Lucrezia has been married to Giovanni but she isn't pregnant and Paulo never existed. Get ready for some almost certainly atrocious historical inaccuracies, which seems ridiculous seeing as I am legitimately a history student, but sue me, I wanted to write a character-centric story rather than focus on lots of external detail, so that's what I've done. I've had such a blast writing this, so I hope you like it Amelia! 
> 
> I realise I'm super late to the party in joining this fandom, but I really hope anyone who reads it enjoys it. Any feedback would truly make me so happy, or even anyone who just wants to chat about the Borgias <3 (my tumblr is all-stories-in-the-end-221b)

_Vignettes_

Lucrezia longed for everything which had come before Pesaro. The freedom of chasing her brothers around the courtyard in the midday sun, squealing and shouting with her skirts flying out behind her; gazing out at the pastel dusk from her window and daydreaming of the future; the loud, messy bustle of Rome around her with all its clashing colours and fragrances.

But what she missed most of all was the way Cesare looked at her.

Before Pesaro, whenever he had caught her eye across the dinner table in secret amusement, or crept up behind her in the garden and whirled her round, laughing, his eyes had been open and easy, full of a light and warmth she had never seen directed at anyone else. Now it was anything but easy. He would look at her and for a split second it would be as it had always been – but then his gaze would darken with pain, and for the first time in her life Lucrezia felt there were more shadows than light between them. It was as though a cloud had crossed the sun.

“Am I different, Cesare?” she asked one afternoon, almost two weeks since her return to Rome. It was early afternoon and they were lying together in silence on his bed, her head resting against his chest as he read. A faint breeze ruffled the drapery at the window, wafting the warmth of the sun and the delicate perfume of wisteria into the room from the walled garden outside. The slow, rhythmic thump of his heart beneath her ear was soothing, and if she closed her eyes she could almost forget how long she had gone without hearing it.

“You are Lucrezia,” he replied simply, but his fingers stilled for a moment where they were absent-mindedly intertwined with her golden curls.

“Yes, but am I different now?” Lucrezia pressed, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to contain the emotion she could feel rising in her throat. She blinked it away determinedly, staring up at the familiar embroidered canopy and the ivory flowers she had laughed under so often. Gazing at them now, she could not remember the last time she had laughed – the last time they had laughed together. She looked away, focusing on the pale band of skin on her index finger where her wedding ring no longer was. “Tell me the truth, Cesare,” she said insisted, ignoring the lump in her throat.

“Why do you ask, sis?” he asked, and she could hear the frown on his face.

Lucrezia turned her head and found Cesare already looking at her, book forgotten. His touch was gentle in her hair, eyes serious and intent.

“I – I sometimes feel as though I cannot remember who I used to be,” Lucrezia admitted, fiddling with the open collar of Cesare’s blouse so that she would not have to meet the pain in his gaze she knew the honesty of her words would bring. She traced her fingertip along the seam, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thin linen. “It is as though I have lost a part of myself somewhere along the way, and I cannot find it.”

“You are the same light of this family you have always been,” Cesare replied slowly, tucking a ringlet behind her ear and tilting her face up gently so that their gazes met. His was dark and troubled as he regarded her closely, eyes searching hers uncertainly as though he was afraid of what he might find – as though he no longer knew her better than she knew herself. “Do not talk like this, Lucrezia,” he murmured quietly, tracing her cheek with his thumb. She could have lost herself to its tender familiarity if it were not for the pain in his gaze, and she closed her eyes so that she would not have to see her own fear reflected in it.

“You do not look at me the same anymore, brother,” she whispered, feeling her eyes fill with tears as she voiced what had troubled her more than anything since her return. She had been able to bear the numbness of her own heart, the pity and disappointment in her parents’ expressions, the peculiarity of being at home without truly feeling as though she had returned – but not the anguish in Cesare’s eyes whenever he looked at her. She swallowed, tasting the same salt in her throat which stung her eyes, blurring her vision so that the shadows in Cesare’s eyes were less poignant. “I feel like a stranger when you look at me.”

Cesare closed his eyes for a moment as though struggling with himself. Then he exhaled, reopening them and gently brushing away the tears that had spilled down her cheeks as she’d spoken. “It pains me, sis, to look at you and know how you have suffered,” he said softly, eyes on hers again as though they would never leave them. “It pains me –” he broke off, voice hoarse, “it pains me even more to know I did nothing to stop that suffering,” he confessed, jaw clenched around the words. “I look at you and you are no longer a child, Lucrezia.” 

“But there is nothing you could have done, brother,” Lucrezia said, and when Cesare made an abrupt, disbelieving sound she cupped his jaw, turning his gaze to meet hers. “Listen to me, Cesare, there is nothing you could have done,” she insisted, “not without risking the Sforza alliance.”

“Alliances be damned, I couldn’t care less about politics in the face of your suffering,” Cesare’s voice was full of anger, the words colliding with each other as though they were swords. Lucrezia could feel the tension thrumming through the hand which was still in her hair, and see his other fist clenched against the coverlet, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “No one is allowed to harm you, no matter how –” Cesare snorted derisively, “no matter how _politically advantageou_ s a friend they might be,” he spat, eyes blazing. “You are Lucrezia Borgia. You are everything,” he said, softer, although the fire still burned at his gaze.

Lucrezia took a deep breath and smiled weakly. “There is no need of anger now, Cesare. It is done,” she gently touched her lips to his clenched fist, stroking it until it relaxed and the tension melted out of him, although his eyes still smouldered like the embers of flames not quite extinguished. She twined their fingers together, nestling closer so that they were facing each other on the bed the way they’d laid together a million times, reading to each other or telling secrets or just being in the silence that they trusted no one else with. “It is over now, and I am home,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him.

Cesare closed his eyes and pulled her close, still breathing hard. “Yes,” he murmured softly, resting his forehead against hers, noses bumping against each other, so close she could feel his warm exhales brush her lips and the thud of his heart where his chest was pressed against hers. “You are home now,” he repeated, almost inaudibly, stroking the curls that cascaded down her back. They lapsed into silence, but it was a long time before she felt the rapid thump of his heart slow to a soothing, steady rhythm again.

~

Before Pesaro, Lucrezia had never had trouble sleeping. She’d curled up every night with kisses from her mother on her forehead and read the romances or Ovid until her eyelids drooped and her breathing slowed. Sometimes Cesare had read them to her, his voice low and soothing, his hands in her hair. But now, even back in the familiar surroundings of her childhood bedroom, she felt too on edge to give herself over to sleep. She tried re-reading the romances, but they had somehow lost their magic and refused to become anything more than words on a page, blurring as her candle burned too low for her to see. Once she’d given up on reading, she’d listen to the sounds of the household around her: her mother’s maids putting out the last of the candles, Juan crashing in drunkenly when the rest of the house was dark. Cesare sometime came even later, when all of Rome was dark too, but he was much quieter. It was only because she listened for him that she was able to discern the distinctive rhythm of his footsteps amidst the darkness.

The silence after all the household had retired to bed was worse; there was nothing familiar left to comfort her and the shadows of her room could have been shadows anywhere. It took her mind hours to turn to sleep, and often rosy dawn was smudging the sky before she eventually drifted off, mind aching with exhaustion, a lump in her throat from unshed tears.

Tonight she gave up on her book earlier than usual, restless and unable to concentrate. She set it carefully aside and pulled on her embroidered satin gown, tiptoeing out of her room and down the stairs into the garden. Stepping out into the night she took a deep breath, inhaling the perfume of night-flowering jasmine and the smoke of the city on the cool evening air, letting it envelop her. The darkness soothed her, somehow. It was better than candlelight, where every shadow seemed a threat. In the starlit darkness of the garden, everywhere was in shadow, including herself, and she felt somehow comforted by her own invisibility within it.

Wandering aimlessly through the walled garden, she trailed her fingertips over the closed buds of the flowers, shut against the very darkness she breathed in. She meandered her way through the lemon trees and across the grass to the fountain, the dew of the grass cool and damp under her bare feet. The water burbled soothingly in the quiet, moonlight refracting off its ripples as she dipped her finger curiously into its inscrutable depth, touching the stars that glimmered there, immovable. She knew Cesare was there before he spoke. His familiar tread was just audible over the murmur of the fountain and she caught the heady smell of leather and the salt of his skin in the night air, mingling with the aromatic perfume of the night-flowering jasmine and the lemon grove.

“What are you doing out here all alone so late, dear brother?” she asked teasingly, whirling round to face him and feeling her nightdress billow in the breeze. “Are you awaiting a secret paramour?”

“Only you, my love,” he smiled playfully, taking her hand and twirling her round as though they were meeting in a ballroom before Pesaro rather than under the gently twinkling stars when she was afraid of her own dreams. To her own surprise she heard herself let out an involuntary giggle, letting him dip her backwards and take her into his arms, falling into a slow step. “And what of you, sis?” he asked softly, nose nudging against hers as they moved gently together. His hands were warm and secure on her waist, grounding her. “What brings you out so late?”

“Perhaps it is I who has a secret lover,” Lucrezia grinned mischievously, twirling round in his arms and pressing a light, teasing kiss on the tip of his nose. She felt him huff in amusement, his arms tightening round her as he dipped his head to give hers one in return, teeth nipping gently.

“Any man you decided to take as such should consider himself the luckiest alive,” he said softly, nudging his nose against hers again. She leant closer, losing herself in the security of his arms and the familiar, heady scent of warm skin and citrus which made breathing easier than the darkness ever could. They moved together in silence for several long moments, revolving slowly round the fountain which burbled gently in the darkness, the music to their dance.

“I am not sure he would be,” Lucrezia found herself saying into the silence, her head resting against Cesare’s chest. “My husband certainly did not seem inclined to think so.”

Cesare’s arms tightened around her, his mouth against her hair as he murmured, “He must not have had eyes then, sis. Trust me when I say any man worthy of you would know how privileged he was.”

“I cannot imagine any husband or lover thinking of highly of me as you seem to, Cesare,” she replied quietly, staring up at him. His eyes were dark, full of quiet intensity as they regarded her in the faint glow of the moon as though even with all the stars glittering above them she was the only thing to exist. It took her a moment to realise they’d stilled, both breathing slightly faster than usual as though they really had been dancing. “Am I wrong to think so?” she murmured, tracing the line of his spine through the linen of his shirt and feeling him shiver under her touch.

“No, sis,” he said softly, thumb brushing her lips. His gaze was heavy on hers, full of the openness which she had wondered if she would ever find in it again. “My heart is yours, you know that.”

“This heart?” Lucrezia asked, tracing her touch over his chest and placing her palm there, feeling the warm skin under the thin fabric of his chest and the hard, fast beat of his heart. She looked up at him, and the weight of his gaze made her own beat faster, thrumming under her nightdress.

“Yes,” Cesare murmured, the single word quiet and choked.

Slowly, Lucrezia undid the top two buttons of his shirt, pushing the fabric aside and tracing the hot skin above his heart. She could feel the beat of it beneath her fingertips, faster than before.

“Lucrezia,” Cesare said, and the trace of uncertainty and wonderment in his voice gave her a strange sense of power. Carefully, she lowered her head and pressed her lips delicately to the skin where her touch had been moments before, feeling the heat of his skin and the fervour of his heart beneath it. He let out a soft, low sound at the brush of her lips, his grip tightening where he still held her waist as though they were dancing. She pressed her mouth to the space above his heart again, this time in a lingering, open-mouthed kiss, tasting soap and salt and skin. His hands gripped her tightly, as though he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer.

“Lucrezia,” he said again, but the plea in his voice was weaker, and his hands moved to her hair. She pressed closer, feeling the warm, hard line of his body against hers and let out a deep breath against the skin of his throat where she pressed her lips too, tracing the pulse of his heart. He let out a stifled grunt, lips hot and parted against her forehead as they breathed unsteadily together, but then he slid his hands out of her hair to cup her face instead, guiding her gaze upwards to meet his, blazing quietly in the darkness. When he stroked her jaw tenderly she could feel the tremor in his hand, and he exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched as he looked at her with blazing eyes. It was somehow the way he had looked at her before Pesaro, the way he had always looked at her – and also in a way he had never looked at her before Pesaro, had never looked at her until this very moment.

Lucrezia felt as though she could lose herself and find herself in it all at once. She gazed back wonderingly at the myriad of emotions in her brother’s eyes, tentatively reaching up to trace the line of his jaw and feeling the way the muscles there were clenched hard. She was reminded of the way she had seen men gaze up at the holy cross in the splendour of the Vatican, and equal mix of wonderment, fear, and adoration. His gaze was clouded with the undertone of the self-hatred she associated with the expressions of those lined up outside confessional as she reached up to trace his lips, wondering what he divined in her gaze, if she looked at him as if he were something holy too.

“It is late, my love,” Cesare murmured slowly, gently taking her hand away and pressing a kiss to its palm before intertwining their fingers and exhaling, fixing her with a smile she knew better than her own. “Too late even to be out meeting secret lovers. You should be sleeping.”

“I cannot,” Lucrezia confessed, staring down at their clasped hands.

“Come,” Cesare said gently, pulling their clasped hands to his chest and kissing her knuckles. “Let me read you to sleep as I used to.”

Half-reluctant to leave the soothing silence of the shadows, but comforted of the thought of not being alone and suddenly feeling exhausted, Lucrezia let herself be led across the moonlit garden and through the deserted dark hallways until they were back in the dim, golden light of her bedroom. Cesare guided her into bed, tucking her in carefully as he had so often before but not since her return. Then he sat down on the floor beside her bed, elbows resting on the mattress so that his face was beside hers where it rested on the pillow. Close up, she could see the dark circles under his own gaze that she knew mirrored hers and the faint remnants of a scratch beside his left eye from a scuffle he’d had with Juan a few days earlier. He reached out and brushed a ringlet off her face, expression unreadable but full of warmth. “What should you like to hear, sis?”

“Anything so long as it is in your voice,” Lucrezia murmured, eyelids heavy, exhaustion suddenly washing over her in the safety that his presence allowed. For the first time since her return, she no longer felt like an imposter. Burrowing further under the coverlet, she turned onto her side so that her face was next to his and reached out, touching his cheek absent-mindedly.

He smiled the smile she had feared she had lost and pressed his lips lightly to her wrist, gaze full of affection. Then, turning his head, he picked up the copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses she had cast aside earlier and thumbed through it before starting to read: “Apollo’s first love was elusive Daphne, the child of Peneus, kindly tyrant of the river…”

Lucrezia lost herself to the soothing familiarity of his voice and the story, the way the low candlelight made tiny flickers of hazel burn in his pupils. It was like catching a glimpse of the secret knowledge that all constellations were made of fire. She was reminded of staring up at the luminous December sky as a child and wondering how the stars could look so gentle and serene as they burned. “The child of Venus spoke to Apollo,” he read softly, eyes on the page, but his fingers playing loosely with hers. “And warned him, ‘your arrows may pierce veins, but mine shall pierce your soul…’”

For the first night since she’d been back in Rome, Lucrezia did not notice the shadows wavering in the candlelight or feel the knot of fear in her stomach she’d grown so used to she’d almost forgotten what her body felt like without it. She felt, for the first time since her return, that she was home. Smiling silently to herself, she twined her fingers with his, feeling the familiar grooves of his knuckles, the cool metal of his Cardinal’s ring, the calluses from wielding a sword.

“Apollo walked as if in a tower of flames… he burned with love while Daphne fled as though she feared the very name of love,” Cesare read, absent-mindedly tracing patterns on the palm of her hand. They’d used to write secret messages on each other’s palms when they were younger, trying to see if they could discern the secret code of the other’s touch. Lucrezia had always won the game, but she had never been sure if it was just because Cesare had let her to please her. She’d always felt sure he could see inside her soul as easily as she could see into his. “Apollo embraced the lovely tree, whose heart he could still feel beating inside… he stroked its branches and kissed its bark, and the tree seemed to tremble beneath his touch, as though it knew him…”

“I wish I had the ability to turn myself into a tree whenever I was being pursued by unwanted admirers,” Lucrezia murmured wryly, tracing her touch across Cesare’s palm and drawing tiny half-circles like crescent moons on his wrist.

He let out a short snort of amusement and glanced up from the page, shaking his head. “I can just picture it. Lucrezia the poplar,” he grinned, eyes glittering with humour.

“A poplar tree?” Lucrezia exclaimed indignantly, flicking his cheek lightly with her fingers. “I would never dream of being anything so very common, brother. I should be something much more unique. More decorative.”

“A Christmas tree?” Cesare teased, amusement colouring his tone.

Lucrezia shoved him, laughing. “No, not a Christmas tree. Perhaps a silver birch or a holly tree.”

“A holly tree would keep away even Apollo,” Cesare grinned, and Lucrezia saw the shadow cross his gaze at the same time she felt her own expression cloud, turning from playfulness to seriousness in an instant. The light, warm atmosphere around them felt suddenly threatened once more, the shadows encroaching. His hand tightened protectively over hers. 

“I do not need a holly tree to keep away any Apollos, my dear brother,” Lucrezia said lightly, trying to cover the sadness that suddenly weighed heavily in the air with levity. She squeezed his hand in reassurance – but whether it was to reassure herself or him she did not know. “I have you.”

Cesare smiled, shadows melting away, and leant forward, gently nudging her nose with the tip of his own. “That you do, my love,” he promised softly, eyes reverent. “Always.”

He began to read again, and Lucrezia, slowly lulled by his voice felt the lingering sharpness of her fear melt slowly into contented drowsiness. She was vaguely aware of his soothing touch on her hand, the warmth of him beside her and the familiar intonations of his voice and manner as he read the story he had read so many times before. Dimly, she registered the gentle pressure of his lips against her forehead and whisper of goodnight when she was floating somewhere between dreams and sleep. It was the last thing she was aware of before she drifted off into slumber, and slept more peacefully than she had since the night of her marriage.

~

Lucrezia awoke alone to the pastel light of early morning and an empty ache in her chest. Her copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses lay closed on the pillow beside her, and she picked it up, tracing the indentations in the well-thumbed spine as she stared numbly at the familiar surroundings of her room. Instead of reassuring her, she felt out of place in them, as though she was an imposter sleeping in her own bed once more. Trying to shake off the feeling of unease, Lucrezia set the book carefully aside and pushed back the covers to dress as quickly as possible.

Before Pesaro, she had loved dressing every day in the colours of all the jewels – but now it made her uncomfortable to sit in front of the looking glass and to see someone so different to the wide-eyed, naïve girl who had used to gaze back at her. All the youth and softness of hopeful innocence was lost. Instead, her eyes were guarded with caution, mistrustful even of her own reflection. Faint purple smudges shadowed them, reminding her uneasily of bruises even though they always stayed deep and never yellowed. She tried closing her eyes so she would not have to look at herself, trying to recall the feel of Cesare’s arms around her waist and the burn of his eyes as he danced with her under the starlight – but all she could see now was the darkness.

It was hard not to lose herself to it when she was alone and he was not there to lift her out of it with a grin of wicked shared amusement across the breakfast table, or his laughter, soft and affectionate, against the shell of her ear. She was not truly alone, for her mother and Gioffre were both in the villa too – but unlike Cesare, their company made her feel more rather than less alone. She stayed in her room, standing listlessly at the window and watching the slant of the sun gradually move across the stone floor, marking the passage of time. It was how she had often spent her mornings in the parlour in Pesaro, waiting to be back in the very place she stood in now. It wasn’t that she found playing with Gioffre or talking to their mother tedious – it simply reminded her of all the things she used to love and no longer seemed to be able to. No matter how much she tried, she could no longer lose herself in Gioffre’s miniature battles and painted figurines, or focus on her mother’s gossip of the Roman noblewomen. She felt detached from them and from herself whenever she was with them, and ached for Cesare to be there, to look at him and know that she was still who she had always been.

It was midday before she saw him, when the family gathered for lunch under the dazzling afternoon sun. Her father had been detained at the Vatican, and her mother was so engrossed in trying to break up the bickering which had erupted between Gioffre and Juan that no one but Lucrezia seemed to notice Cesare’s approach.

“You look very smart, brother,” she remarked with much more levity as she felt, watching as Cesare sat down beside her at the table, head to toe in his cardinal’s red.

“The college of cardinals meets in half an hour,” he grimaced, reaching for a plate and adjusting his collar uncomfortably.

“Must you go?” Lucrezia asked, toying with her meal. She had barely touched breakfast but she had little appetite these days.

“I am a cardinal,” Cesare said wryly, his smile humourless. “It is generally expected.”

“I wish you were not so that I would not have to spend another afternoon sewing,” Lucrezia said, taking a sip of wine and pushing her food around her plate with her fork.

“I wish I were not too, sis,” Cesare replied grimly, resigned resentment colouring his tone for a moment. Then he seemed to shake it off, nudging her playfully with his shoulder, eyes searching hers for a smile, “But I fear I cannot forsake my religious vows just to spend the afternoon sewing with you, much as I might prefer it.”

Lucrezia couldn’t help but smile, although she knew it did not reach her eyes and felt her heart sink at the way it made his own cloud with worry. He opened his mouth again as though to speak to her, but before he could, Vannozza asked him about the couple he’d married that morning, and he got dragged into a dispute with Juan over whether or not it was acceptable for a high-born man to marry a woman whose father was only middle class. Lucrezia pushed her lunch around her plate with her fork, missing the very person who was sitting right next to her. She wondered now that she was back how she had been able to bear being away from him for so long, but then she felt that she had not only been away from him while at Pesaro, but also away from herself. Now that she had returned she ached for both of them so deeply she felt as though it would consume her.

~

A light drizzle fell with the mauve-tinged darkness of evening, the lull of it just audible against the ground. Lucrezia stood alone by the open windows of her bedchamber, staring out into the blurred dusk. The noise of the drizzle soothed her – it had rarely rained at Pesaro, and even when it had, her husband’s grunts and thrusts had drowned it out as they had drowned out so much. Even although she knew he was not lurking somewhere downstairs, about to ascend to bed her, she still dreaded this time of day. Her nightdress rustled in the quiet, too smooth against her freshly-bathed skin, reminding her of all the nights at Pesaro she had stood in it full of resigned dread. Afterwards, it would smell of him: sickly sweat, so sweet smelled fetid where it clung to her. Even now with the windows flung open and the rain rushing down outside, saturated with the waxy fragrance of the wet lemon trees, she felt as though she could still smell him.

Exhaustion made her eyes ache along with her heart as she stared out at the rain that was becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish from the darkness, but she knew trying to sleep would be useless. Unable to bear the prospect of hours more solitude with nothing but the past to keep her company, Lucrezia pulled on her silk gown over her nightdress and carefully crept out of her room and her memories into the soft, enveloping shadows of the darkened corridor. Instead of making her way out into the now rain-soaked garden as she had the night before, she wandered towards Cesare’s room. A tiny crack of golden light glittered under his closed door. She paused for a moment, comforted by it, before knocking softly on the wood so as not to wake the rest of the household.

After a moment’s pause, Cesare’s voice answered from somewhere within, and she entered to see him bent over his desk, candles burning so low that the whole room flickered faintly in the half-light. He hadn’t yet changed out of his cardinal’s red, although his hat sat atop a hastily stacked pile of papers in front of him. He finished penning the sentence he was writing and set down his quill, looking up with a slight frown creasing his forehead. His expression immediately turned to surprise and pleasure when he saw it was her, tension melting away from his face – although it still didn’t possess the same happy openness it had before Pesaro. But, she supposed, neither did her own.

“Are you busy, brother?” Lucrezia asked, closing the door gently behind her. 

“For you, sis? Never,” Cesare replied warmly, pushing aside the scrolls on his desk and reaching for her. She went to him, letting him wind his arm around her waist and pull her into the affectionate embrace she had craved since she had awoken alone that morning and missed him. His touch seemed to liberate her from her shadows in a way nothing else could.

“What do I disturb you from?” she asked, returning his embrace and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head as she peered curiously at the scrolls of paper on the desk.

“A delegation from the Medici family in Florence,” Cesare replied, rubbing a hand wearily over his eyes. He looked up at her, touching her chin lightly. “You look tired, sis.”

“As do you, brother,” Lucrezia replied, leaning into his touch and closing her eyes slightly.

“I challenge anyone not to be made tired by clerical duties,” he grimaced, glancing back at the heap of scrolls on his desk. “But,” he let out a sigh, pressing his lips lightly against Lucrezia’s palm, warm and hot against her fortune lines, “There must be one son in the cloth and one in armour,” he repeated with a dull and defeated bitterness.

“And you are good at it, Cesare,” Lucrezia told him insistently, pained by the resigned resentment with which her brother talked of the confines of his life. “Juan would not be.”

A hint of mirth made his lips twitch. “No, perhaps not.” He looked up at her and the amusement melted into a frown as he reached out, softly tracing the shadows beneath her eyes. “You do look tired, my love,” he told her, gently. 

“I confess I am, but sleep eludes me,” Lucrezia admitted with a sigh, moving away to sit down on the edge of his bed, but keeping their hands intertwined in the space that stretched between them. “I feel as though I have lost the knack of it, since my marriage.”

Cesare’s jaw clenched, and he squeezed her hand fiercely. “You will learn it again,” he promised, quietly.

“I feel as though there are so many things I have to learn again, now that I am returned,” Lucrezia confessed, toying with his index finger so she would not have to meet the pain in his gaze, for she feared if she did the lump in her throat would turn to tears. “Except how to be with you, brother,” she said softly, glancing up to see the suffering in his eyes give way to warmth. “I feel as though I should forget how to breathe before I could forget that.”

Cesare smiled, the quiet, unguarded smile that she had never seen anyone else elicit from him, although his eyes were still heavy with seriousness. He came to sit beside her on the bed, cupping her cheek tenderly and turning his gaze to his. “Less is lost to you than you think, sis, I promise you,” he said solemnly in hushed tones, his gaze intent on hers as though imploring her to believe him. “All that you were before your marriage still exists within you, even if you do not feel it at this moment.”

“But I am no longer the little girl I was when I left Rome,” Lucrezia said quietly, feeling her voice tremble with the tears she could feel building in her throat. “I try to cling to her, Cesare, I truly do – but no matter how much I try I fear I no longer have her sweetness of heart nor her innocence. I cannot seem to feel love for anyone I should anymore, apart from you.”

“You are her, and you are more. You are you as you have always been and always will be. You are Lucrezia Borgia,” Cesare promised intently, eyes full of seriousness. He brushed away the tears which had spilled down her cheeks and sighed, pulling her close, his lips pressed against her hair.

“Sometimes I feel as though I no longer exist,” Lucrezia whispered, leaning her forehead against his and feeling the comforting brush of his breath against her lips. She swallowed, feeling the tears well even though her eyes were shut. “I feel as though I left to Pesaro and I never truly came back,” she confessed, feeling the hot, salty tears spill from her closed lids and knowing he could feel them against his own cheeks now too. “It is only when I am with you that I feel like myself again, Cesare.”

Cesare clutched her, jaw gritted as he stroked her hair and mumbled against her lips, “I would cut out his heart for what he has done to you, sis.”

“What good is his heart? It will not make me feel myself again,” Lucrezia murmured, stroking the hard line of his jaw with trembling fingers, “Only yours can do that, brother, as it has always done.”

Cesare exhaled, touch tender against her cheek as they swayed slightly, foreheads pressed together.

Eyes wide and still wet with tears, Lucrezia tilted her head up and pressed a soft, purposeful kiss to his mouth. It was as chaste as the thousands of kisses they had exchanged before, but she let herself linger in the intimacy of it. Cesare did not respond but held her tenderly, letting her linger for a moment before pulling away slightly, jaw clenched as he rested his forehead against hers. She could feel the warmth of his unsteady exhale against her lips, the soft scratch of his stubble against her cheek, and when he nudged his nose gently against hers it was a gesture of such familiar affection that she felt fresh tears spill hotly down her cheeks at how often she’d yearned for it at Pesaro.

They were silent for a long moment together, wrapped in the sanctuary of each other’s embrace. Although the salt of her tears was still wet on her cheeks, Lucrezia felt comforted by the warmth of his body against hers. The rhythmic thump of his heart was soothing like the repetitive hush of the rain, so close to hers that she could almost imagine it was her own.

~

The following day was scorching with sun, and Lucrezia, having spent the whole day in the company of Guilia Farnese and some other noble ladies, didn’t see Cesare until the evening. Outside her windows, the sky had faded to smudged, dusky hues of pale pink and violet, and a cool breeze ruffled the crinkled petals of the irises which sat on her dresser. She was lolling on her bed, fiddling absent-mindedly with an embroidered ribbon she had made with Guilia that afternoon, when there was a soft knock on her door.

“Who is it?” she called, sitting up hopefully.

“It is your favourite brother,” Cesare’s voice came from the other side of the wood.

“Juan?” Lucrezia called out playfully, and the door opened to reveal Cesare glaring at her with dark humour in his gaze and an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Juan? _Juan_ is your favourite brother?” he demanded, eyes glittering darkly. “Consider your answer carefully, sister.”

“Why? Who else would there be?” Lucrezia asked teasingly, and then squealed as Cesare leapt at her, wrestling her backwards onto the bed and tickling her sides mercilessly. She wriggled about under him on the bedspread, giggling, her hair splayed out across the pillows.

“Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?” he breathed dangerously, hovering over her, the tip of his nose touching hers. His hair tickled her cheeks and she could smell the familiar fragrance of leather and soap and his skin, the dark undertone of wine on his breath. He stilled for a moment, gazing down at her, still breathing hard.

“Why – reconsider – when I have the upper hand?” Lucrezia gasped, taking advantage of his momentary stillness to squirm free and pin him down beneath her between her thigs, grinning triumphantly as Cesare didn’t even try to move.

“First you tell me I am not your favourite brother, and then you take advantage of me when I’m distracted,” Cesare accused, slightly out of breath. He reached out, flicking her pendant with his fingers. “You are cruel to me, sis,” he said, eyes glittering.

Lucrezia smiled, sitting back on his hips and letting his hands come to rest on her thighs. “Guilia Farnese says that women should know how to take advantage of men who are distracted,” she said lightly, twining her fingers with his and toying teasingly with them.

Cesare snorted. “Well she has certainly proved she knows how to do that.”

“With father, do you mean?” Lucrezia asked, tilting her head to one side. She picked up the ribbon she had discarded on the coverlet when Cesare came in and ran it idly through her fingers.

Cesare smiled tightly. “You are too observant by a half, little sister.”

“So does she not love him?” Lucrezia asked, feeling as though another shadow was cast over her innocence. She had always believed Guilia to love her father, to love her. Was she to discover nothing was as she’d grown up believing it was, except for Cesare? He seemed to be the only constant in a world which suddenly seemed in tumultuous and devastating flux around her.

“I fear whether or not she does has nothing to do with it,” Cesare replied, fiddling with the embroidered material of her dress.

“What does it feel like, brother?” Lucrezia asked, lowering her voice. She twirled the ribbon between her fingers, regarding him thoughtfully.

“What does what feel like?” Cesare asked, shifting so he was leaning back on his elbows, looking up at her, hair ruffled from their tussle and his cheeks tinged pink with exertion. He leant forward, grinning, teasingly flicking the pearl of her earring so that it jingled beneath her ear.

Lucrezia ran the ribbon through her fingers, sitting back on his hips. “Love,” she smiled, but could not cover the seriousness of the word with it.

Cesare’s touch paused before moving to run his thumb along her jaw. “You know what love feels like, sis,” his eyes held hers, suddenly more serious as he paused for a moment before continuing, “It is with you always. It is what you feel with mother, or father, or me. Or, dare I say it, even Juan,” he added, grinning wickedly and gently tapping her nose with his finger.

Lucrezia laughed, biting the tip of it with her teeth. “Even Juan,” she repeated, releasing his finger from her mouth and looking down, tracing her fingers down his side. “No, Cesare – what I mean is – the kind of love marriage is supposed to bring. I have had a husband, but I fear I do not know what love feels like. I do not know what it is to desire the person whose bed I share.”

“I am not sure I am the person to ask this of, sis,” Cesare said softly, eyes intent. “I am a cardinal. I will never know that kind of love either.”

“But you have been with women, Cesare,” Lucrezia insisted, toying with the fabric of his shirt. “You know what it is to love someone, to be loved. I have not known that. I may never know it.”

“You will know it someday, my love. I promise you,” Cesare murmured, rubbing his thumb against her cheek, gaze blazing with seriousness.

“But I do not know it now. Tell me what it is like. Tell me that it exists,” she said quietly, eyes not leaving his. “Please, Cesare.” They were both silent for a moment, gazes locked. Lucrezia suddenly felt very aware of the warmth of his body beneath hers, the rise and fall of his chest, the way the air between them suddenly felt somehow charged.

She watched Cesare visibly swallow. “I do not know if I have ever loved a woman I have been with in the way you describe, sister,” he said quietly, very still.

“Is such love impossible?” Lucrezia asked, eyes not leaving his. For once, she could not read the expression in them. She leant forward, touching his cheek lightly.

“In every sense of the word, my love,” Cesare replied tensely, gaze locked on hers as though he were afraid to move. She felt very aware of his grip around her thigh, the solid warmth of his body under her. He was completely still, as though he feared her – although it was not fear she saw in his eyes when he looked at her. They burnt like Apollo when he was searching for Daphne, only with none of the violence of fire, only its warmth. She felt the same heat creep up her cheeks, making her heart beat faster. She wondered if he could hear it in the sudden silence between them; if his was beating fast too, the way it had under her lips the night they had danced in the garden.

“Do you think me ugly, brother?” Lucrezia asked, tremblingly, reaching up to unlace her gown so that the fluid fabric slid around her shoulders, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone and the soft mounds of her breasts. “I feel as though I must be, to have been so unloved.”

“You are anything but,” Cesare murmured, his eyes dark but full of uncertainty. He reached out – but then very gently pulled her gown back up around her shoulders.

“But you will not look at me,” Lucrezia said, feeling the tears rising in her throat.

“Lucrezia, I cannot,” he said, jaw clenched but his eyes still fixed on hers, dark and tumultuous. “You know I cannot.”

“Do I not please you?” she asked, tears brimming. She pushed his hand away, letting the gown fall to her waist again and running her hand over his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of it beneath her touch. “Am I not as beautiful as the other women you have seen?” she continued, tracing her other hand over her own chest, lingering on the rosy buds of her nipples.

“You please me very much,” Cesare replied hoarsely, closing his eyes, jaw working tightly around the words. “Such women could not even be compared to you.”

With a rush, she realised could feel the heat of him hardening under her, see the flush rising on his throat and the rapid rise and fall of his chest which matched her own as she leant closer. Slowly, she traced her fingers down the bare skin where his shirt fell open, the line of his collar bones, the soft hollow between them were she could see the irregular flutter of his pulse.

“Lucrezia,” he whispered her name hoarsely as though it was a prayer, a talisman. She could feel the hard, fast beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, and leant down to press her lips against the skin there, feeling it flutter faster still and feeling his stifled groan resonate through his chest. “Lucrezia, you must not –” he said breathlessly, but he did not push her away.

She lifted her lips from his chest to look at him, seeing the desire she could feel burning through her reflected in the darkness of his gaze. “I must not what, Cesare?” she whispered, and he closed his eyes as though in pain as she shifted her hips against his and both of them let out a rush of breath as though they’d been holding it. Cesare’s grip tightened around her thigh, but he still did not move. His disbelieving gaze held hers half in wonder, half in torment, and as though he was afraid if he looked away he might never have the courage to look back again.

Lucrezia traced his lower lip with her index finger, feeling the silken hotness of it beneath her skin and his unsteady exhales. His eyes darkened and he caught it between his teeth, staring at her as they both breathed heavily and she felt him grow harder still beneath her. She leant closer, nudging her lips lightly against his the way they’d done a million times before when saying goodnight, or thank you, or hello – but it never been like this: Cesare hot and flushed beneath her, both of them breathing hard, when it almost felt as though even that tiny brush of contact was almost too much to bear. Lips tingling, Lucrezia pressed her mouth lightly against his again and felt rather than heard the groan he emitted as he finally moved, hands coming up to grip her waist as he leant in, lips brushing against hers in an open gasp as they both clutched desperately at each other.

“Cesare –” Lucrezia let out a moan at the feeling of his warm, solid chest against her bare breasts, the urgency behind the way he held her as though she were a lost part of him. She clung to him, gazing in wonder at the illusion of serenity his closed eyes gave, the crease in his forehead, the way his mouth slightly was open, so close to hers she could feel the fervour of his breaths. Running her hands up into his curls, she moved her hips against his again and felt his exhale against her mouth as his eyes flickered open, full of a kind of reverence as he gazed at her. However, before she could succumb to the urge to press her lips to his, a knock sounded loudly on the bedroom door.

Immediately, they both sprung apart. Cesare pushed himself off the bed, stumbling across the room dazedly as though to put as much distance between them as possible. He stared wide-eyed at her as she hastily pulled the top of her dress back up, covering herself up. She smoothed her hair hurriedly and called, “Enter,” wishing her voice sounded steadier.

The door swung open to reveal Micheletto, standing silently. “Forgive me for the intrusion, your eminence,” he said monotonously. “An urgent matter requires your attention and I was told I would find you at home.” Lucrezia watched as his gaze swivelled imperceptibly between her where she sat on the crumpled bedsheets, dress hastily done up, and Cesare, who was standing several feet away, cheeks flushed, leather trousers tighter than usual. “I hope I have not come at a bad time, your eminence,” he added blankly.

“Not at all, Micheletto,” Cesare said gruffly, his voice slightly hoarse. He straightened his shirt and cleared his throat. “Do you come bearing good or bad news?”

“Impossible to say, your eminence. An informer has been captured, and I thought it might be best if you spoke with him yourself,” Micheletto replied in his characteristically taciturn manner.

“Let us go to him then,” Cesare declared, and after a moment’s hesitation and an unreadable glance in Lucrezia’s direction, he followed Micheletto from her bedroom, leaving the bedsheets rumpled behind him and Lucrezia’s cheeks burning with emotion. Breathlessly, she listened to his footsteps fade away and leave the room still and silent apart from the rapid beat of her heart.

Outside, the dusk had long since been swallowed up by a clear, starless night which stretched across the city, deep and shadowless. The stars were so sharp in their luminosity that Lucrezia, wandering over to her window to feel the cool night breeze on her hot skin, felt she could almost catch a glimpse of the flames that burnt within them.

~

Lucrezia slept longer than she was used to, and when she awoke the slant of the sun into her room told her it was nearing midday. Even though she was accustomed to spending most of her days in relative solitude, she felt Cesare’s absence from her more acutely from usual the moment she awoke, as though she had been parted with him as well as slumber. Normally even when he was not with her she never felt truly separate from him – Juan had mocked them when they were children for being like a two-headed Cerberus – but today she stirred with a sense of uneasy loneliness. She pictured Cesare, alone and striding down the bustling halls of the Vatican in the red he hated so much, and felt as though he were out of reach to her in a way he had never been before.

It had troubled her, even in unconsciousness, as though a cloud had settled over her as she slept. She had dreamt of an ornate silver mirror which had showed her his face rather than her own when she looked into the glass. When she’d smiled in joy his face had remained blank and emotionless. She’d tried reaching out to him, tracing her fingers across his jaw in a familiar gesture, pressing her lips softly to the cold glass of his cheek – but when he had remained unresponsive she had felt panic, calling out his name and then screaming it as tears ran down her face as he only stared blankly out of the frame as though she did not exist. Then suddenly his face had come to life, gazing at her with familiar warmth and affection, but both had quickly become replaced by a frown of confusion, and then panic. He’d reached out, calling her name, anguish and pain spilling over in his gaze. She shouted back, trying to reach him, to reassure him – but she knew he could not hear her. They were trapped on opposite sides of the glass, only able to see each other’s pain.

The shadow of the dream hung over her all day, making her anxious to see him, but it was evening before she found him. Cesare was sitting in one of the alcoves in the courtyard, staring broodingly out across the bruised purple of the twilit garden, a book splayed open on the stone behind him forgotten. He glanced up at the soft rustle of her skirts, and her cheeks burned to meet his gaze because it so immediately reminded her of the heat that had burnt between them last time they had looked at each other. Perhaps he felt the same because he could not seem able to hold her gaze any more than she could hold his, clearing his throat and dropping his gaze to the grass, jaw set tightly. He was not wearing his cardinal’s robes, she noted, just black that cast him in shadow.

“You are reading, brother?” Lucrezia asked with an attempt at lightness, picking up the dog-eared book which sat beside him and turning it over in her hands. It was a copy of the Homer’s Iliad he’d had since childhood, “Cesare Borgia” penned inside it in his familiar script. She knew it was the book he returned to whenever he was ill or feeling particularly disillusioned with reality. It was the most well-thumbed of all the books in his room.

“Not particularly effectively,” Cesare replied dryly. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment and then away again, the muscles in his jaw working. She felt sure she was not imagining the humiliation in his gaze that she could feel burning her own skin, but it had always been hard to draw the line between what belonged to each of them.

“Dinner is to be served soon. Mother sent me to look for you,” Lucrezia said after a moment’s pause, for once at a loss for what to say to him. She hesitated, and then hitched up her skirts to sit on the stone beside him, shoulders pressed together the way they had sat together so often over the years; on one or other of their beds, or the walls of the Vatican, or on this very spot – yet it somehow felt infinitely different to any of those times. He had always been her solace, in everything. Never before had he somehow been part of what troubled her.

“We should not keep her waiting,” Cesare said quietly, but he did not move.

For several long moments they both stared out across the garden they had played in all their lives. The dusk softened the bruised purple of the sky and little clouds of moths hovered over the evening pollen of the wisteria, smudging the colour of it. It was silent but for the burble of the fountain and the cicadas and the distant sound of the taverns opening in the city. It felt so familiar Lucrezia could almost imagine that it was before Pesaro, before the torture of being home without really feeling she was. Feeling suddenly exhausted by the weight of missing somewhere she already was, she rested her head against Cesare’s shoulder and let out a long exhale. The silence between them intensified, and she could feel the tension thrumming through him as he sat rigidly beside her, not pushing her away but not putting his arm around her and pulling her close as he would have normally done either. She felt a lump rise in her throat, unable to bear the thought that she had isolated herself from the only thing left in the world that felt like home.

“Do not hate me, Cesare,” she whispered, staring at the shadows of the night-flowering jasmine only just visible in the dusk. “I believe I could bear anything but that.”

It almost scared her, her desire to be with him. She had always felt most content and most herself when she was around him as far back as she could remember. She had craved his attention and his very presence whenever he was missing from her – but she felt now that she still craved him even when she was with him. The power of it overwhelmed her and empowered her all at once, and was more consuming than her love of god had ever been. No one and nothing had ever been able to fill her mind or her heart as wholly as Cesare, and his place in both comforted her as much as it frightened her now she was aware how easily things could be taken from her. She half-feared the deep pull she felt towards him, but its inevitability lent her to accept it without any fight, as she knew both that she neither had any hope of winning such a fight, nor any true desire to.

“Hate you?” Cesare said incredulously, and his gaze found hers in the half-light, intent and serious. He cupped her jaw, looking at her as though he had never looked away. Groaning softly, he shook his head slightly and rested his forehead against hers, his expression pained as he stroked his thumb across her cheekbone. “It would never be possible, my love,” he promised softly.

~

Lucrezia saw little of her brother over the next few days as he was sent on official Vatican business to Florence, but his absence did nothing to erase him from her mind. Every morning she awoke and craved his presence, intent and impulsive, as familiar as her own shadow. She felt cold without it, as though the sun had passed behind a cloud, and yearned for the secret understanding and warm intimacy of his gaze when it met hers; the sensation of his hands in her hair; the heat of lips against her forehead. For days, she paced the villa restlessly, unable to settle to anything for more than a few minutes at a time without remembering the overwhelming proximity of his body as he’d stared up at her from her bed, gaze somewhere between awe and anguish as they’d clung urgently to each other. He filled her mind and her soul more consumingly than fear had ever done.

At Pesaro, she had not allowed herself to think of him ever. After the first night, she had felt afraid that the memory of him would somehow be tainted by the same horrors which she was. She could not bear the thought of losing Cesare to them too, and so it was only the fleeting moments when she was alone, wandering the bluebell woods in drizzle and solitude, that she allowed herself to remember him. Just small flashes of him chasing her round the garden in the blistering sunshine of August, or dabbing cream onto the tip of her nose at the tea table, or holding her protectively in his arms when she’d had nightmares. Little glimmers of hope in the abyss of her misery, she had tried to ration them like a person starved. Now that she was returned, she felt consumed by the desire for what she had deprived herself of for all those months. Djem had told her of Indian tigers once, how when the monsoon came after months of drought they sometimes drank so much in compensation that they drowned their own hearts in water.

Briefly upon her return, Lucrezia had feared that she had somehow lost Cesare in the same way she had lost herself in Pesaro; when he had looked at her with unfamiliar pain she had mistaken it for him seeing her as unfamiliar. But now she saw that it had not changed but had merely been clouded by the same anguish she herself had felt, and now that those clouds had begun to clear into something else she felt as though she were simultaneously glimpsing the assurance of the one thing which would never change, and flickers of things she had always known before but never truly been confronted with.

It was five days before he returned from Florence, a week since they had danced together under the moonlight of the walled garden and she had truly felt, for the first time since her return, that she was home. Lucrezia was sitting in the early morning light on the terrace, staring out at the terracotta rooftops faded from the sun and the distant hills that rose mistily beyond them, hazed in smoke from the city and the pastel dew of dawn. She knew he was there without having to turn around when a hand gently squeezed her shoulder; he had recognised the familiarity of his footfall and smell of his riding leathers and heady salt of his skin.

“Brother,” Lucrezia felt the smile spread across her face as she clasped the hand on her shoulder, feeling his presence wash over her like a sigh of relief, like the rains of the Monsoon. She turned eagerly, meeting his answering smile and taking his hand, pressing her lips to its warm skin and pulling him to sit down beside her in the dappled light of the sunlit bench.

“You know me so well, sis?” Cesare asked, his eyes full of warmth as looked at her as though he had craved the sight of her as much as she had him. He cupped her cheek, stroking her jaw softly with his thumb, smiling quietly as she leant into his touch.

“I feel as though I should know you deaf, if my eyes were shut,” Lucrezia murmured, toying with his fingers. “I believe I recognise you better than myself sometimes, brother,” she glanced up to find his gaze already on her, heavy and warm with a not unfamiliar intensity that made her stomach somersault. She smiled, ducking her head and shaking it slightly as she picking up his hand in hers again. “But tell me of Florence, was your visit successful?”

“As much as could be expected,” Cesare replied with a sigh, leaning back against the stone wall behind him, gaze momentarily flickering out over the horizon of the city as his fingers moved absent-mindedly with hers. “And you, sis?” he asked, turning his attention back to her with a soft smile, the sun catching his curls and illuminating them with gold like hers. “How has Rome been in my absence?”

“Mother and Guilia Farnese are still at each other’s throats, and father does nothing to assuage the situation. And Juan swore off wine for all of two days which resulted in a lot of ill temper all round,” Lucrezia replied wryly, drawing patterns on the soft skin of his palm and feeling the tiny indentations of his fortune lines there. 

“I can imagine,” Cesare snorted with amusement, catching her eye and making her grin too. “And what of you, sis?” he pressed, turning her hand over in his.

“Little to report,” Lucrezia said lightly, smiling up at him. “Did you miss me while you were on your travels, brother?” she asked playfully, tracing crescent moons on the dip of his palm and the raised veins of his wrist, trailing her fingertips under the sleeve of his black velvet.

“Always, my love,” Cesare replied quietly, and when she glanced up to catch his eye she saw in his gaze a sadness even the warmth his affection could not fully hide.

They sat in silence for several moments, fingers dancing slowly round each other in the dappled sunlight which poured through the variegated leaves of the plum tree. Lucrezia watched the way their fingers intertwined with each other on the sun-bleached wood of the bench between them, and smiled at the thought no other hands knew her touch as well as his, nor his as well as hers. “How many people do you think are blessed with such intimacy of the soul, Cesare?” she asked distractedly, tenderly tracing the fragmented love line on his palm as though she could heal it just with her touch. She raised his hand to her mouth, pressing her lips lightly against them.

“None that I know,” Cesare replied solemnly, and his smile was no longer straightforward but coloured with sadness, his eyes were heavy with a look of penance she associated with those waiting outside the confessional. He squeezed her hand lovingly in his, gaze full of emotion.

“None that I know, either,” Lucrezia murmured as he traced her lower lip with his index finger. “Perhaps we are like Abelard and Heloise,” she said softly, and Cesare smiled wryly at that, although it did not reach his eyes. He cupped her chin, thumb still grazing her mouth as he looked at her.

“They were not brother and sister, my love,” he told her quietly, gaze searching hers, too serious for the early morning pale golden sunlight and the fresh, delicate perfume of newly opened azalea buds.

“Neither were they Borgias,” Lucrezia said fiercely, cupping his jaw and fixing his gaze determinedly with hers. Cesare was still, even if the intensity of his eyes were not.

“The unholy family,” he said inscrutably, with a flicker across his face that was halfway between a twisted smile and a grimace. He stroked his thumb across her hand where it still cupped his face and closed his eyes in a sigh, jaw clenched, his face set in the resignation she associated with the red of his cardinal’s robes.

~

The following afternoon, they rode out of the city to the sloping, green hills to the south of Rome. There was something freeing, Lucrezia found, in being out of Rome somewhere she had never been before and so had no memory for it to evoke and remind her of her current unhappiness. For the first time since her return, she forgot that it was a return and simply existed in the sunshine that beat down on her back as they raced their horses downhill, laughing loudly into the wind that whipped her hair from her face and made her feel freer than she had in months. It was as though Cesare had known exactly what would make her feel better, which did not surprise her although it warmed her heart. He had always seemed to know exactly what she needed without her having to voice it aloud. Sometimes she felt as though he knew what she needed even before she herself did.

They eventually collapsed on the pollen-sticky grass in a copse, breathing hard and laughing harder, exhilarated. Letting their horses wander lazily through the meadow, they spent the afternoon reading and sunbathing until the sun began to soften in the azure sky like melted butter, tinting the tops of the wildflowers and long grasses that surrounded them in gold.

“Shall I have to marry again, Cesare?” Lucrezia asked, delicately piercing the stem of a forget-me-not she had just plucked. They were both stretched out in the long flowering grass, pollen and mayflies glittering hazily above them in the afternoon sun that soaked into them.

“I expect father will wish it,” Cesare replied from where he was lying lazily on his back, fiddling with a long stem of grass. “But I promise this time it shall be someone who is worthy of you, sis. You will not again be forced into an alliance with someone ungallant. Of that you can be sure, my love,” he promised, turning his head towards her, the gold of the dwindling sun catching his eyes and making them burn softly as he looked at her. They were heavy with a seriousness which didn’t match the languid pastel sky and made Lucrezia’s heart quicken in her chest.

“And what if I do not wish to marry at all?” she pressed, speaking in hushed tones, as though she were in a confessional imparting a secret. She watched her brother out of the corner of her eye as she added a delphinium to the string of wildflowers she had been making. She could feel his gaze still on her, serious and troubled amidst the gold they were cast in.

“You can always take the cloth, as I have done,” Cesare said after a moment’s pause, his tone lighter than she suspected he felt. He reached out, tickling her bare forearm with a long blade of grass and grinning at the way it made her squirm. “Although,” he touched the tip of the flowering grass to her nose, “you would have to sacrifice your beautiful hair, which would be a tragedy indeed.”

“It should be more of a tragedy to marry another husband like my last,” Lucrezia replied seriously, her heart too heavy at the prospect of walking down the aisle again to return his smile. The thought of separating herself from all of what was part of her – of separating herself from him – for a second time was too much to bear. “I truly cannot bear the thought of it, Cesare,” she confessed, hearing the tremble of emotion in her words although the tears she felt in her throat did not spill.

“Then we must make sure that the past does not repeat itself,” Cesare told her, no longer teasing but equally serious as he looked at her, tousled curls intertwined with the grass. He reached out into the space between them, twining his fingers with hers and pressing them briefly to the silken warmth of his lips, the rough brush of his stubble sending shivers through her. “Perhaps,” he paused, let out an exhale through his nostrils as though struggling with himself, “Perhaps you would find your mind eased if you were to meet the suitors yourself?”

Lucrezia paused thoughtfully, plucking a buttercup and adding it deftly to the growing chain of flowers. “I do not like the way men look at me,” she said slowly, working the flowers together. “I feel like fearful Daphne under their gaze, and just as helpless to escape them. They do not see me, they only see the pope’s daughter,” his eyes flickered up to meet his, “a Borgia.”

“I do not see only that,” Cesare said, quietly. His gaze was soft and intent on hers. 

“No, I know you do not. But you are different, Cesare,” she said truthfully, toying gently with their intertwined fingers and gazing back at him. “I cannot imagine what it would be to fear you.”

“Many do not have to imagine,” Cesare smiled wryly, gently tugging her earlobe.

“But not me,” Lucrezia said, smiling at his touch and leaning into it.

“No. I am glad. I would never wish it to be so,” Cesare said seriously, stroking her cheek with his thumb, gaze heavy on hers in the dwindling golden light that fell softly between them like warm honey. She turned over onto her side to lay beside him, each of them facing each other in intent surmise, his hand still cupping her jaw as he gazed into her eyes with unguarded reverence. Tiny nodes of pollen from the forget-me-nots and delphiniums danced between them like dust motes, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.

“I do not fear you,” Lucrezia admitted quietly, closing her eyes as she rested her forehead against his and slowly ran her fingers down his chest. “But…” she dropped her voice to a whisper, feeling her voice tremble as nudging her nose gently against his and felt the proximity of his exhale against her lips. She could feel the way it shook slightly, as though he were as affected as her. “I fear this, Cesare,” she breathed softly, and dipped her head to lightly brush her lips against his for a moment, “I fear what I feel for you when we are together.”

Cesare’s grip tightened on her, and he was silent for a long moment in the suddenly charged air between them. “I am afraid too, sis,” he murmured hoarsely, and she could feel the clench of his jaw muscles where his forehead rested against hers. They were both very still, the long grasses rustling around them like the water of the fountain in the courtyard. Lucrezia felt almost faint from how fast her heart was beating as tentatively, she brushed her lips against his again, feeling the soft, silken warmth of them. Cesare exhaled sharply in a rush at the contact, forehead still resting against hers. He did not return her chaste kiss, but he did not move away either. Slowly, Lucrezia pressed her lips against his, more lingeringly this time, until he returned her kiss, catching her mouth with his only for a moment before they both let out shaky exhales into the space between them, but it was enough to make her heart race and the ache between her legs throb as she clutched him closer.

His eyes were half-closed as he looked at her, lips red and slightly parted. The sun caught his gaze, making his eyes burn as though he were Apollo, only they were full of Daphne’s fear as he held her in his arms. Lovingly, she traced the line of his jaw and he closed his eyes in surrender, a slight frown creasing his forehead. When he brushed his lips lightly against hers between breaths, she caught his lower lip between her teeth, hot and silken and full, and felt him lose the control he had built up around himself like a wall which shut them both out until now. He let out a low groan and drew her close, capturing her in a fierce kiss that was impassioned and intent, the crescendo of a phrase which felt as though it had been building up over an entire lifetime. She could feel how hard he was against her thigh, feel the urgency in the tremor of his hands where they touched her hair, feel the fevered thump of his heart where his chest was pressed against her own. For the first time, she felt as though she was given a glimpse of the recklessness which drove him when he was wielding a sword or charging headlong into the chaos of a battlefield. She clung to him desperately, kissing him back fervently, loving him, sliding her hands under the hem of his blouse and over every inch she could get of his warm, smooth skin.

He made a low sound in his throat at her touch and kissed her harder, clutching her to him as though she were a long lost part of himself. She could smell the familiar fragrance of the salt of his skin and leather, taste the heady undertone of the wine they’d drunk at lunch on his tongue as it twined with hers, making stars tingle behind her eyes and all the way to the tips of her fingers. She let herself get lost in him, and had never felt closer to herself. It felt as though he had equally given himself over utterly to her, as though each were more comfortable with the other than themselves. The lines blurred between which belonged to each of them as Lucrezia deepened the kiss, pulling him closer still and sliding his hands further beneath his shirt, feeling each indentation of his spine that she knew almost as well as her own. She felt consumed by him, the desire for him somehow intensified rather than satisfied as she kissed him back passionately and traced her hand over the soft, vulnerable skin of his stomach, ghosting over the hard outline of his erection straining against his leathers. Cesare let out a half muffled grunt against her mouth at the contact and she felt the throb between her own legs at the knowledge he was as affected by this as she was.

Abruptly, Cesare broke away, breathing hard, holding her jaw fiercely as he looked at her in a turmoil of torment and wonder, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed. The gentle air seemed to ring around them, and Lucrezia could feel tears welling in her eyes at the intensity of what had just passed between them, her breath catching in her throat and her hands suddenly trembling where they held him. She would have given almost anything, even relieved each day of Pesaro, not to have watched the anguished reverence in his gaze become clouded with pain as he took in her bruised lips and brimming eyes, the way her chest rose and fell to match the rapid beat of both their hearts.

“Forgive me,” he muttered tersely, eyes cast downwards as though he suddenly could not bear to look at her. “God. Forgive me, Lucrezia.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Cesare,” Lucrezia exclaimed, dusting grass off her skirts and smoothing her hair, feeling the flush still burning in her cheeks. She swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat, trying to compose herself even though her hands still trembled.

“Nothing to forgive?” Cesare repeated incredulously, eyes flashing up to hers. His cheeks were pink too, his eyes still darker than usual. “Lucrezia –”

“Stop –” Lucrezia reached out, taking her brother’s hand in hers and imploring him to look at her. “Cesare, stop.” She pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, looking up at him beseechingly. “There is nothing to forgive, I promise you, brother.”

Cesare’s eyes held hers, tormented blazing and in the fading golden light, and she could feel the clench of his hand into a fist where she held it. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before gripping her hand back in response, eyes searching hers as though half in fear of what he might find there, as though in fear they might confirm what his own expressed. In response, Lucrezia pressed a soft, tender kiss to his lips. She had only intended it as chaste, but found that she couldn’t help herself from sinking into the oblivion of his mouth, losing herself in the heat of the kiss because it was the only thing that made her feel better, the only way she would not have to confront the same turmoil she felt in her stomach that she could see in his gaze. The kiss relieved and exacerbated her suffering all at once, but she still sought it out as she had always sought him out, drawn to him with a force more powerful and sacred than she had known in any church.

“Lucrezia,” he half-groaned as she caught his earlobe between her teeth, nuzzling at the fluttering pulse-point in his neck. “Sis, we must not,” he murmured, even as his lips were at the smooth curve of her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the pale skin there and sending shivers down her spine and clutch him closer, moving their hips together. “Lucrezia –” he broke off with a low grunt of pleasure, and he replaced his lips with his teeth.

She moaned softly, the sensation making shivers erupt down her spine as she tilted her head back to allow him to suck gently at her neck and stroked her way down his rapidly rising and falling chest, eagerly pulling at the ties of his leathers.

“No – Lucrezia –” he pushed her away, breathing hard, the tumultuous depths of his eyes dark and heavy as they looked at ablaze her in the golden glow of the sunset. His jaw set, he leant his forehead against hers, eyes closed as though against pain. “We cannot – what if someone were to walk by and see us like this?”

“Then they would see something as unremarkable as two people together,” Lucrezia said dazedly, tracing his lower lip with her thumb and wondering at the fact that she now knew how they kissed, how impulsive and intent they were just like the rest of him. She had always felt as though they had known each other better than anyone but now she felt, if possible, even closer to him.

“And if they were to know us?” Cesare fired back, gaze challenging.

Lucrezia hesitated, ghosting her trembling fingers across his lips once more and feeling the weight of what they had just done: how easy it would have been to lose themselves to each other; how much she had wanted to. She bit her lip, feeling half as though she were in a dream even though the sun still poured over them like melted honey, shimmering on the horizon which obscured Rome from view. For most of her childhood, she had lived in fear she would never find anyone else in the world whom she loved as much as her brother. Sitting amidst the wildflowers with her hair unravelling and her heart racing as they looked at each other, she knew it had been a long time since she had feared that. She knew both that Cesare possessed too much of her heart for there to be room for anyone else, and, that even if there was, she had no desire to give her heart to anyone else but him.

What she did fear, as they sat in the smoking embers of the sunset, was how their love threatened to overwhelm, as blinding and impenetrable as flames. It burned her skin and her lips, and she could see it burning his gaze as he looked at her in the soft gold of the sun, too gentle for their fire.

~

When they arrived back in Rome, the stars were out, glittering in the milky dusk far above the ripples of laughter and clatter of cutlery which emanated from inside the villa. Lucrezia wanted to linger outside in the velvety quiet of the garden, for she feared that when they left the shadows what had passed between them would somehow be erased by the light. Cesare stood silently beside her as they gazed up at the villa for a long moment, as though he too were uncomfortably aware of the vast gulf between the world they had inhabited that afternoon and the reality they returned to. He had not looked at her since they’d entered the city, and he did not look at her now even as they stood together in collective silence, as though in memorial.

After a long pause, he strode inside, and collecting herself, Lucrezia followed, if only so as not to be left alone with the pounding rush of her thoughts which threatened to consume her without him. Candlelight stung her eyes as she entered the brightly lit hall, stripping away he softness of the night with its harsh light. When she entered the dining chamber no one seemed to notice the strange happiness and fear she felt bubbling below the surface, and the meal passed in a strange blur that was simultaneously familiar and strange all at once.

She hadn’t thought Cesare would look at her even though they were sat opposite each other, but although silent throughout the dinner, his gaze kept flickering up to catch hers as though he was no more able to keep it from her any more than she could keep hers from him. She found herself reminded of all those nights she had sat alone in the taciturn silence of her husband’s company, wishing the cold eyes which had met hers across the table had been the ones which met hers now. How she had yearned for their dark familiarity and humour, the unguarded and reverential way he looked at her with a love so palpable it made her heart ache. She felt safe in it, protected, as though he could see everything which she felt, even that which she did not understand herself. Perhaps neither of them truly understood – they were simply united in the power of it.

Although she had always felt as though her brother was more unguarded with her than with anyone, he had still always been quietly inscrutable at times. It was only occasionally she felt as though she had been able to glimpse brief flashes of what was beneath, like sheet lightening illuminating the bruised purple skies of Rome in the midst of an August storm. For all his anger, Cesare had always been very self-contained, and so the intensity of emotion he did feel was rarely visible in such an explicit way as it was with Juan. He was much more like their father in that way, although Lucrezia would never have told him that. But now she felt as though she had collected more flashes of lightening in the few weeks since her room than the rest of her life put together, as though absence had worn down his ability to keep all of it suppressed. She supposed it was the same for her. It had never felt so imperative, to love him and have him love her back before.

After dinner was over, Cesare joined her as she went outside onto the veranda to breathe in the cool night air, but did not utter a word as they stood looking out at the lights of Rome. Lucrezia couldn’t help but remember all those nights she had sat out alone on the veranda at Pesaro, staring into nothing but blackened forest, and her heart ached with the relief of being back where she had longed to be for all those months. Suddenly overwhelmed, she leant back against the pillar of the alcove and let the tears fall down her face freely, trickling hotly down her chin and spiking her eyelashes. She felt as though the lump which had felt lodged in her throat ever since her first night at Pesaro was melting away with them, for no matter how many times she had cried since then it had always remained stuck there. Cesare held her tightly to his chest, arms tight and protective around her the way he had held her a thousand times.

“If I am the cause of these tears, I shall never forgive myself, sis,” he murmured into her hair, his voice low and strained as though he was fighting back his own tears. 

Lucrezia pulled away slightly, wiping the wetness away from her cheeks as she looked up at him. “These are not tears of sadness, brother,” she vowed. “But of happiness, of relief. I sat at the dinner table tonight and looked at you and felt as though I was truly home. You are the cause of these tears, but they are tears of joy. I promise you, Cesare.”

Cesare’s brow contorted, his gaze pained as he cupped her face in his and pressed his lips softly against hers. Her face was still wet with tears and she could feel him shaking slightly, but she clung to him, kissing him back. It was tender and urgent, and tasted of tears, the two of them clutching each other as though they were no longer two separate beings but one. The distant sound of their mother’s laughter from the dining chamber caused them to break apart, although Cesare leant his forehead against hers as they breathed each other’s air, trembling.

“Come, brother,” Lucrezia whispered, looking up at the shadows of his face and seeing in his gaze the raw fear and wonder which she could still feel coursing through her. She twined her fingers with his, pulling gently.

“Lucrezia –” he murmured, jaw set, his gaze darkened with the same desire she felt throbbing through her but clouded with anguish. Slowly, she mouthed at his jaw, pressing closer so that she could feel his quickened breaths against her cheek and the heat of his skin that made her own burn. He grabbed her wrist, eyes blazing as they held hers in wild surmise. “Do you have any idea, sis, how much you could lose if someone were to know the truth of this?” he demanded fiercely, but he did not push her away and although his tone was harsh his touch was tender.

“I have lost a husband, Cesare,” Lucrezia fired back, gazing up at him, “I have lost any childish illusions I may once have held about my purpose in life. I have lost trust in my own father and – I have lost my innocence, brother,” she whispered, tears of impassioned solemnity glittering in her gaze as she spoke. “But I have not lost my Borgia blood. I have not lost you, Cesare. You are the one thing which can never be taken from me.”

Cesare was silent for several moments, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes dark and tumultuous, glittering with the same tears Lucrezia felt still wet against her cheeks. “Never,” he murmured rapturously, holding her closer, his lips against her cheek. His teeth grazed possessively against the soft skin there, making her shut her eyes in pleasure. She ran her fingers up his spine, feeling him shudder and clutch her to him, mouth insistent against the skin of her cheek. “Never,” he repeated reverently in a whisper, mouthing the word over and over against her skin like a litany.

She clung to him, loving him, revelling in his very being. Closing her eyes, she leaned into his touch, the feel of his lips against her skin and his arms around her sending pleasure tingling through her. Here in the shadows with just the two of them the impatient ambition and calculating intelligence that constricted him as much as his Cardinal’s red was lost, and he was just himself. The brother Lucrezia had known since she was placed into his arms less than an hour after she first came into the world, who had existed before ambition or anger in his devotion, curiosity and passion. It was the Cesare she and she alone knew, and it made emotion bloom in her chest to think she was the only person who had ever known him as this.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms as though they feared letting the other go, until the villa quietened and the lights slowly went out across the city and it was just the stars that blazed above them. Wordlessly, Lucrezia gently tugged him out of the shadows of the alcove, her thumb over the furious pulse point in his wrist, her cheeks still burning from his mouth. This time he did not resist, but followed her in silence as they made their way through the darkened hallways to her bedchamber. They had walked this way together so often through the years, but never like this: her heart racing and emotion flooding her chest, making her cheeks burn; Cesare’s breaths hot and unsteady against the nape of her neck and his hand tight around hers; a sense of anticipation building between them so powerfully that Lucrezia could feel it to the tips of her toes, overwhelming every part of her until it felt almost unbearable.

The moment the door was closed behind them, she stood on her tiptoes to press her lips softly, fleetingly, against his. She expected Cesare to resist and hold her at arms’ length – but perhaps he could bear it no more than she could because at the touch of her lips he grabbed her to him and kissed her fiercely and possessively as he had never allowed himself to before, hands cupping her jaw. Lucrezia let out a muffled whimper against the urgency of his mouth and pulled him closer, pushing him up against the closed door behind them that blocked out the rest of the world so that it was just them, as it had always been. They kissed as though half-starved of each other, even although they had spent more time together than they had with anyone else throughout the whole course of their lives. Fumbling his shirt open, Lucrezia pressed into the warmth of his skin, feeling the solid warmth of his body pressed so closely against hers she couldn’t tell where her own ended and his begun. He kissed her frantically, pressing his lips to her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids and eyebrows, as though soaking up every inch of her.

Trembling, Lucrezia unlaced her dress and let it fall to the floor so that she stood in front of him completely nude. His lips stilled and he pulled away slightly to look at her although his hand still cradled her jaw tenderly. For several long moments, he stared at her from where he stood against the closed door, bare chest heaving, cheeks flushed and eyes darker than the sky outside. His wine-red lips were parted slightly, but he did not utter a word as Lucrezia moved closer, regarding her with an overwhelmed and anguished reverence. He reached out, touching her cheek softly, his dark gaze full of emotion so pure and intent that she felt her own suddenly blur with tears. She blinked, not wanting to cry because she knew it would cause him pain, but she couldn’t help the hot, salty tears spilling down her cheeks where his lips had been moments before.

“Do I make you so miserable, sis?” Cesare asked hoarsely, stroking the tears away with his thumb, his forehead creased with pain as he regarded her closely. His jaw was set, eyes a turmoil of torment and concern.

Wordlessly, Lucrezia shook her head, reaching up to capture the hand which rested against her cheek. She pressed a soft, loving kiss to the palm of his hand, his thumb, the pulse point in his wrist where she could feel the proof that his heart was hammering as fast, if not faster, than her own. “No one has ever touched me as you have, Cesare,” she murmured against his skin, pressing one last kiss to his wrist and guiding his hand towards the space above her heart, letting him feel its fervour. “With such reverence,” she said quietly, guiding his hand over the soft mound of her breast and see the pleasure contort his face as he felt the hot, silken skin of her hardened nipples. “With such affection,” she whispered into his ear, taking the lobe into her teeth and feeling his sharp exhale against her neck, “With such desire,” she breathed hotly into his ear and felt him groan, eyes flickering shut for a moment as she pressed her body into his, feeling how hard he was in his leathers and the heat of the exposed skin of his chest against her breasts.

She dipped her head, nuzzling the hollow at the base of his throat and tasting salt and wine. Tracing her fingertips lightly across his chest, she lingered on the lines of his silver scars that marked his chest like the fiery lines of constellations, the space above his rapidly beating heart. “No one has ever made me feel so loved, Cesare,” she whispered against his skin, hearing her voice tremble. She looked up, eyes wide and open to meet Cesare’s overwhelmed expression for a moment before his mouth was on hers again and they were kissing with such an intensity that Lucrezia felt as though she would be consumed completely by it. It was such that she did not notice how they got to her bed; all she was aware of was the softness of the mattress hitting her back and pulling Cesare down on top of her, tugging off his already half-undone shirt and fumbling at the ties of his leathers. Then it was so much hot skin that Lucrezia did not know where hers ended and his begun any longer and she never wanted to know the distinction again.

Lucrezia knew she would never forget the way he looked at her as he pressed himself into her for the first time. His gaze burned with complete surrender to what existed between them as he stared at her in wonder, eyes dark and vulnerable in her light. He had given himself over completely and it was only then how much he had struggled against this hit Lucrezia, just how much of a wall he had been so careful to build between them as they grew up – or perhaps it was more a wall within himself between what existed and what he wished did not. Whatever it was did not exist any longer as they moved together in fluid unity on the rumpled sheets of the bed, clutching at each other wherever they could and gazing into the depths of each other’s eyes as though it was love of the soul and not of the flesh they were engaging in.

His dark curls were ringed around his head like a dishevelled crown of thorns, a deep flush rising up his neck and burning his cheeks and his gaze that he could not move from hers. He should have looked wild, but instead he looked almost peaceful, awed, softened at the edges and glowing from the serenity which she felt between them as they moved together as one. He looked somehow younger than she had known him, gaze wide and open, completely unguarded as though he had given himself over completely to her without a second thought. His mouth was slightly parted, a crease of pleasure between his eyebrows as she clutched him to her, moving her hips to push him deeper inside her. The whole time his eyes held hers in wonder and wild surmise, wide and dark, lost in hers as though they were his own. It was a look Lucrezia had never seen on any man’s face unless it were in front of the holy cross.

Perhaps it should have felt different or unfamiliar, but to Lucrezia it felt as though it were the most natural thing in the world as they smiled at each other in secret intimacy. It was the smile she had always known, across the dinner table or splayed out in the grass of the garden, and in that moment Lucrezia felt as though she had never known more love in her soul. The depth of it was so profound that she felt it overwhelm her, tears glazing her eyes as she closed them, leaning her forehead against his and clutching him closer with urgency, moving faster. His grip tightened on her hips, his mouth soft and urgent against her neck with a graze of teeth as he let out a low groan and came deep inside her. 

The room around them was dark, even the stars outside the window obscured by cloud, but as they lay there wrapped in each other’s arms, Lucrezia felt more full of light than she had ever known.

~

When Lucrezia awoke, the barely dawn light was cold and she felt cold too, even though the warmth of Cesare’s body was still beside her. She could tell immediately from his rigid silence that he was lying awake, staring up at the starless canopy above them. A deep bruise was just forming at the base of his throat, an angry smudge of lilac, and another just under his left nipple, above his heart. She traced her own lips wonderingly as she looked at them. There were the same marks on her skin too, like blotted violet watercolour, the same as the pink and purple dawnclouds in the pale expanse of the sky outside, one on her breast and one on her wrist. She lifted her wrist slowly to her own mouth, fitting her lips over the mark his own had made, the mark of one Borgia to another.

Outside, the sounds of the city were just beginning to percolate the cool daybreak, making their own silence louder. Lucrezia shifted onto her side, running her fingers lightly down Cesare’s bare chest, touch lingering on the marks she had made. “It used to be a sound I loved,” she mused quietly, as Cesare shifted imperceptibly under her touch, “Lying here and listening to the city come alive.”

“And now you do not?” Cesare asked, his voice hoarse and his gaze still fixed above him although his hand came to twine with hers on his chest. She could tell he was struggling to pull himself out of his own thoughts.

“And now I do not,” Lucrezia repeated, toying half-heartedly with his fingers, “How can I when the more I see of it, the more I feel that Rome is a black hole where more and more of what I love disappears? I can’t but help think that someday I too will disappear into its abyss, Cesare. And sometimes I think perhaps that would be easier than to keep watching everything I care about become twisted into perverse nothingness,”

“Do not speak of such things, sis,” Cesare said, and even though he was not looking at her she could hear the troubled expression she knew was in his gaze.

“Why not, when it is the truth?” Lucrezia demanded tearfully, fiercely swallowing back the lump in her throat and looking defiantly at her brother, tilting his chin to face her. “We are tainted in the eyes of the people by our family name. Turned into a million different things. Even I cannot see myself without the stain of Borgia. But when we are together, Cesare, we are both real, we are more than just vignettes of our family name.”

Cesare’s thumb was tender against the salt on her cheek, his eyes guarded as though willing her not to voice all the things he already believed and make them true.

“You are always real, my love, more real than anything,” he said, quietly. “More real than Spain, or Naples, or the Holy Spirit in the Vatican walls. None of them matter without you. Without – ” his lips were suddenly on hers, urgent and impassioned, his hands in her hair. She clung to him desperately, kissing him back with the same fiery fervency that he kissed her. But before she knew what was happening, Cesare had pulled away and was stumbling out of the bed, expression anguished.

“Cesare?” Lucrezia said tentatively, feeling the fear and unease which had bubbled underneath the surface since she had awoken become fully realised.

“What has cursed us with this, little sister?” Cesare whispered, sinking back against the closed bedroom door, hair dishevelled and chest rising and falling rapidly. Shadows ringed his even more shadowed eyes in the frail morning light and his fists were clenched at his sides as though he were at war with himself.

“Is it a curse, brother?” Lucrezia asked, softly. She could feel her eyes shining with tears but although she felt afraid she could not feel sad as she sat in the rumpled sheets that were still warm from where he’d slept beside her. “Can something truly be a curse if it does not feel like one?”

Cesare’s eyes flickered to hers in resignation, his jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose and sank down on the window seat in brittle silence, the frail dawn light behind him casting his features in shadow. Pulling her nightgown loosely around her, Lucrezia crossed the room and sat down beside him, reaching for his hand and feeling her heart fumble a beat as he gripped it fiercely even though he could not seem to bring himself to look at her.

“I have known enough of curses, brother, to know that this is not one,” Lucrezia whispered earnestly, and his grip tightened so that it was almost painful, mirroring the anguish which passed over his strained expression at her words. “How can it be when I am happier than you than I have ever been with anyone?” she asked, tears spilling silently down her cheeks as she spoke.

Cesare’s throat visibly moved and even thought the blurring of her own tears she could see that his own eyes were glimmering with unshed salt.

“I am daughter to the Pope of Rome, Cesare,” Lucrezia said shakily, wiping the tears from her cheeks and looking at him imploringly, “A Borgia. I have grown up in the Vatican and it is my destiny to wed dukes and princes. Men compete for my hand with gifts of gold and wild beasts and land. I hold the world on a silver platter, but – I do not feel loved, Cesare, except when I am with you.”

Cesare’s expression blanched from anguish to a conflict of pain and the same, deep adoration Lucrezia recognised as the happiness which she had just described. “You are Lucrezia Borgia,” he told her, eyes burning in the pale crimson dawn. “You deserve to be loved always.” He pulled her in, lips fierce against her forehead.

“I am,” Lucrezia smiled sadly, tears still glittering in her eyes as she looked up at him, “By you.”

Cesare closed his eyes as though in pain, his face contorting as he pulled her close, resting their foreheads together, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Always,” he murmured, almost inaudibly, the single word full both of reverence but also with the same deep sorrow Lucrezia felt within her soul which could only be quenched by him. “Lucrezia,” he traced his thumb across her lips, sounding as though he were choking back tears, “Always,” he promised reverently, lips against her skin, and she knew he could taste the salt of tears there, although she no longer knew whether they belonged to her or to him. If there had ever been a line between them, it no longer existed. The heart she could feel thudding half fearfully and half in wonder could have belonged to either of them. She couldn’t tell where the heat of his skin ended and where hers begun, or whose fingers were whose where they were intertwined like the roots of wildflowers. Behind them, the sun began its slow ascent into the bloodied sky, melting their shadows into each other as though they were one.

All she knew as they sat encircled in each other’s arms was that Cesare existed within her and she within him as incomprehensibly, profoundly, and eternally as God existed within the glittering walls of the Vatican.


End file.
